


beacons

by Kirta



Series: my dreams are not unlike yours [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings Online
Genre: 'hot potato but youre the potato and the rangers are passing you around', Gen, bc. every major npc that gets you to a new region is a ranger, i don't. know who to tag bc most of the characters are there for just a little and then you're off, oh yeah working title:, or nearly so, rip writing yourself out of saving earlier characters by writing chronologically later things first, somewhere else with a new set of characters, spoilers for all of vol1 shadows of angmar, there's also a lot of elves involved tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:14:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22119973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kirta/pseuds/Kirta
Summary: After six hundred years, you return to the ruins of Edhellion at the behest of the lord of Imladris and steadily become a part of greater and greater happenings.
Series: my dreams are not unlike yours [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1562503
Comments: 12
Kudos: 15





	1. refuge

**Author's Note:**

> i regret writing 'moon' first a little bit bc of who i said i didn't save in vol1 and,,, unless i wanna go back and rewrite significant parts of 'moon' to not include those bits and their consequences. which is not something i want to do right now. rip a whole bunch of rangers i guess

Edhellion is the last place you ever thought to return to. Six hundred years and you feel the loss of Talagan Silvertongue as keenly as you did the day he pulled the library down upon himself and Skorgrím Dourhand. You joined this expedition at the suggestion of Lord Elrond, reluctant though you were, and now you look upon the remnants of the refuge in which you had passed many happy days. 

Edhellion has faded as Elrond predicted, though the memories have not. You wonder what the steward of Thorin’s Hall would say if he knew you had seen the dead king he idolizes in person. That you had watched his defeat. Gormr Dourhand bears little love for you and your companions as it is, and you are sorely tempted to goad him. It is only the memory of your teacher that holds you back. Not for nothing was he called Silvertongue; antagonizing the dwarves would do little to honor his memory.

You begin to understand why Lord Elrond wished you to accompany this expedition when the gaunt-lord reveals himself. Ivar the Blood-hand you have heard of only in passing even in the depths of the libraries of Imladris. The raising of Skorgrím Dourhand is a terrible feat of necromancy and you know this is far from over even as you flee the collapsing tomb with the Longbeards and the sons of Elrond.

You dearly wish there were no tales of your bravery to drive strangers to beg your aid. Truly, most days you would not mind, but you have come to Celondim to rest and to contemplate the many meanings of Skorgrím’s return. Still, you nod and smile and search for the missing elven prince. There are dwarves and goblins both involved in Avorthal’s capture and it seems someone powerful is trying to push Ered Luin into war once again. You were witness to the last war between elves and dwarves here and you refuse to be witness to another. To this end you spend days riding up and down the line of the mountains delivering messages and accusations until it seems you shall do nothing else until the end of days. Lord Cardavor wishes to march with all the might of Duillond on any dwarf that could possibly be involved in his son’s capture and Dorongúr refuses. The Longbeard dwarves that have taken over stewardship of Thorin’s Hall refuse to mount a rescue of their own for fear of being accused of collusion should they fail. You are ready to throw yourself at the fortified port with neither plan nor prayer when one of the dwarves at last enlists the aid of a third party.

You have heard, of course, of the Dúnedain, the Rangers of the North. You have made a study of many things in your life and they have touched much of the world, and though they hide themselves well they were frequent guests in Imladris when you studied there yourself. Until now, however, you have not had the opportunity to work closely with them. Langlas does not seem best pleased to bear the responsibility of this rescue but he does so anyway, and when Avorthal is safe and alliance- tenuous still but stronger than it has been in decades- is established between Thorin’s Hall and Duillond, he fades from view and even those who know him hardly mark his absence. You seek him out yourself, after the talks and the celebrations are concluded. You tell yourself you are not hiding from the interminable politics of this new peace and you nearly believe it. 

You pass several days in the lodge Langlas shares with a handful of others. Langlas is friendly but tells you little of his own business though Celairant, the younger ranger, is less tight-lipped. 

“If word must be sent to Bree, I can take it,” you offer. Langlas is reluctant at first to trust the location of his chieftain to one so nearly a stranger, but he is needed here to keep the peace and news of the Dourhand King resurgent cannot wait. Celairant perhaps could accompany you, but he is young even by the standards of Men and you think Langlas may need his aid here more than you will to cross the Shire. You depart on a borrowed horse with the next dawn, cheerfully leaving the herding of the elves and dwarves of the Blue Mountains to others.

You rest for a night in Bywater. The food is plenty and the inn is warm, even if it is all to the wrong scale here in the heart of the Shire. You catch a glimpse of a Man in greys and greens like to those of Langlas and Celairant in the shadows. He does not stand out as much as you would expect him to, taller even than you and obliged to bend double to pass the doorways. It is not until much later that you learn his name, well after you have made your way into the far northern reaches of Eriador- Halros, a ranger who has devoted himself to the protection of the Shire.

In Bree you meet the Dúnedain chieftain at last, and you are nearly as surprised at his Sindarin greeting as at his accent. Aragorn- Strider to most, here- speaks as the elves of Imladris do, with the roar of the falls in his voice. Your own speech is that of Eryn Lasgalen, shadowed at the edges but vibrant still. It is good to speak your own tongue, here in this human-hobbit city, and you decide you like this ranger. It is clear that he cares for the Men who follow him and they for him. You know nothing of Amdir but you help the rangers in Bree corner him and put him to rest. It pains them all to do this and though you understand grief you are outside of theirs. You think to leave them to mourn but they do not take the time, either there in the ruins or later in places of greater safety. There is no time. You too find another task set before you. You go.

You meet Mithrandir, too, in Bree, another encounter unexpected so far from the heart of the great happenings of the world. He gives you only a smile that knows too much when you mention the Dúnedain you have met thus far, greater in number than you had ever realized, and sends you east in search of Radagast the Brown. It is easy to forget, sitting in a cramped room in the Prancing Pony, that Gandalf the Grey is perhaps one of the most powerful beings you will ever meet face-to-face this side of the Sea. There is something urgent to his words, and to Aragorn’s when you think on them again. There is something larger happening here, more dire even than the gaunt-lord and his allies, but it is not for you to worry on. 

You follow Mithrandir's direction up the Greenway to find the ranger Saeradan and he in turn sends you to Candaith at the foot of Amon Sûl and Candaith sends you soon after to the Forsaken Inn. You are beginning to feel rather like the ball passed round in a children's game, racing from place to place without more than a moment to settle, much less come to know any of these people you are fighting beside. 

Though they are by no means the same, there is at the least a similarity between the Dúnedain and the Eglain of the Weather Hills. They are both possessed of a fatalistic awareness of their place in the world, though they are not without light- even on the edge of the blood-red swamps guarded by the Dead there is laughter and love to be found. Even among the shades of Arthedain there is loyalty and the hope of goodness still.

You begin to truly see the virtues of Men- and of hobbits and dwarves, though you meet them less often- where you have for years looked not at all. You have spent too much time among your people alone, though you may not yet see this for yourself. Too many of the elves think too little of the strength of others, but you are being drawn farther and farther into the wider world and you cannot deny that which is shown so clearly before you.

You spend a night at Candaith’s camp in the hills and you tell him of Aric the Stone-speaker and the remnants of Arthedain. He asks more questions than you expect. He asks more than you can answer, being far more versed in the history of the northern kingdoms than you. You learn a great deal about Arthedain that night, and no small amount about Cardolan and Arnor, and you regret that you cannot stay come morning. Candaith sees you off with a smile and you promise to return to finish your conversation. He laughs and tells you how to find your way to Esteldín.

You do not realize until you arrive just how great a leap of trust that knowledge is. The Dúnedain’s hidden refuge, built on the foundations of an ancient city of their predecessors, is tightly guarded and quiet kept. Halbarad has had word of you from Aragorn by raven and the guards are told to welcome you but you can see that many still are wary. Refugees out of Angmar make no small part of the population here, and you even see some in the garb of the rangers. They are as much a part of Esteldín as Halbarad or Daervunn.

Fornost has lain in ruins all your years, as much a piece of history to you as it is to the Dúnedain. It is retaken now by Angmar and armies spill forth to threaten the North Downs. They break against the alliance of the Council of the North. You are once again sent after Aragorn to bring word of the dire threats facing the Free Peoples. You meet him this time in Rivendell. It is strange to be here again- it has not yet been four months since the departure of the company of the sons of Elrond for the ruins of Edhellion. It feels far longer and the disparity itself is strange to you. You are unused to so much happening in so little time. You deliver Halbarad’s message to Aragorn and though he gives it the consideration it is due he is distracted. Whatever matter had held both his attention and Gandalf’s in Bree has only grown larger since you last spoke with him. 

You go next to Lake Evendim at Aragorn’s request. Like Esteldín, the island of Tinnudir is a stronghold of the Dúnedain inasmuch as a group so prone to wandering can be said to have a stronghold. The city of Annúminas is beautiful even in its disrepair but here, like Fornost, the forces of Angmar have slunk into the skeletons of the north kingdoms. There are names passed between their commanders- Mordirith’s you have heard from the refugees in Esteldín- the False King, they name him. False or not, though, they still fear him. The name Amarthiel means nothing to you. Some part of you feels as if it should, but though you search your memories you find nothing. You are friendly with Calenglad and the rangers that watch over the heart of their realm of old and you think you would like to return here some day. You name the horse that bears you and the ancient Silithar back to Imladris Lakewind and swear to the waters of Nenuial that you will walk here again. You think little, in the moment, of this new string of promises you are making.

Nazgûl. Ringwraiths. It is one thing to know, as an academic, that they are or once were real. It is quite another to believe them in your heart to be more substantial than fireside stories and another yet to be hunting one through the wilderness. Even what little it leaves behind is enough to fill you with a cold and unnatural dread. You do not feel properly warm again even after a full day back in Imladris.

You are not sure Barachen has ever seen an ent or a wood-troll closely enough to have learned their differences at all. You have, however, and this is most certainly one of the latter.

You do not realize there is a delegation of elves from your home until Lord Elrond suggests you seek Legolas’s advice on the matter of this wood-troll. Your prince does not seem to have known of your presence either. You do not know Legolas Thranduilion well but you are glad he stands with you against the anger of the forest and one of the Nine.

It takes much longer than a single day to warm again after facing the Nazgûl itself. It helps not at all that immediately afterwards you pursue it into the snowy slopes of the Misty Mountains. You are in a foul temper the entire time you spend there. Skorgrím Dourhand shows himself once again- and this time at last you strike him down. There is little satisfaction in it, and the spirit that rises from the body only revive reminds you that the dwarven king never truly returned to this world.

You are cold.

You track the Nazgûl to the abandoned treasury of Helegrod and you watch the raising of a dragon-wight. The horror of such a thing is outshone by the terror of fighting the Nazgûl, alone now. This is not a fight meant for you and you are shaking from the cold and the fear and- it leaves. It must truly have been weakened if it chose to flee rather than spend its strength destroying you. Even with this thought it takes you a long, long time to stand and to leave the treasury. Glóin looks at you with concern and steers you nearer the fire when you finally return to his camp and he sends you back to Imladris as soon as he is able. You are still cold.

Word arrives soon after from the north of a company of rangers long thought lost. Aragorn paces the room as he tells you of Golodir’s expedition into Angmar against Aragorn’s command and the shadows rising again in the Witch-king’s realm. There are too many threats that must be faced and from too many directions. Aragorn cannot go in person even to help his own people and so you go in his stead. You hope you will be enough. 

“They departed from Esteldín and we have heard nothing in the years since. I believed them all dead.” There are many things in his voice, among them wonder and longing and hope. You think he would go in a heartbeat if not for this great errand that is held in such secrecy. You have met his halfling charges in passing here and there along the paths of Imladris, though you know not what their burden is. You pass Frodo near the stables as you make ready to depart and for just a moment the dread chill, banished at last after many days in Elrond’s halls, returns. You think little of it and ride north.


	2. of iron

The skies of Angmar are dark even near noon and most nights you cannot find the stars. The Earth-kin light fires against the darkness at the edge of the Ram Dúath and the Trév Gállorg do the same in Aughaire. If Corunir thinks you a poor offering from his chieftain he gives no sign of it. You wonder, as you earn the trust of the Trév Gállorg over the next days, if he expected anyone at all. It has been a long, long time since he and the others had departed Esteldín against Aragorn’s will.

There is too much to be done. You let yourself be pulled into the conflict between the Trév Gállorg and the Trév Duvárdain- you let them make you their champion. Avair is a vicious fighter. She nearly cleaves your arm from your body at Clúcath. You are too worn from the battle to hide your shock at Domongart’s callous exile of his failed warriors. Gun Ain flees, nameless, into the hills. 

You, of all those here, understand the power of a name. It is the very foundation of your craft. To have that stripped from you is to take a wound that will never truly heal. You pity her.

There is work to be done and you cannot stay here as long as you might wish. You still know nothing of the final fate of Golodir’s company, nor will you until you can pass the Rammas Deluon.

Corunir joins you at the edge of Aughaire as you tighten the last straps on Lakewind’s saddle. He hands you one last bundle of travel rations- some secret ranger recipe none of them have yet seen fit to share with you- and wishes you luck.

“If my kin still live and you are able to find them, will you give them a message from me?” he asks. You consider him carefully. It has been years since he has seen any of his company. His family- and beyond the fact that all the rangers consider each other kin, to hear him speak of them. He cannot even say if any of those who escaped the terrible power of the watch-stones that day still survive.

And there is a deep kind of loneliness in that that you understand.

“No.” 

He protests, but you speak over him. You tell him to gather what possessions and supplies he will need for a journey across Malenhad. You can see the moment in which he understands what you intend.

“I told you before,” he says with a ragged sigh, eyes downcast. “I cannot pass the stones, even weakened. I tried for years but in the end they broke me.”

“You were alone before.” The weight of the stones’ dread had preyed upon his desperation and his fears for Golodir and the rest of their company and without any he trusted by his side, he had been defeated. You cannot say if your presence will be enough to make the difference this time, but if all else fails you will lay Corunir across Lakewind’s back and drag them both through the Watchers’ line.

Corunir hesitates, but in the end he accompanies you. He stands at the edge of the watch-stones’ aura of dread, diminished since your defeat of the ancient spirit but still potent, and gazes east with naked hope. You wind Lakewind’s reins tightly around your fist and with your other hand you take Corunir’s. You step forward together into the stones’ oppression. Corunir’s breath catches as the fear layers itself heavily over your shoulders and he falters. You pull him forward by the hand and when this fails to keep him in motion you wrap your arm around him and drag him through. Lakewind’s eyes are rolling in his head but he follows your lead and when you are past the Watchers he stamps and tosses his head until you calm him with quiet words. Corunir is trembling violently and it takes him far longer to recover, but when at last he gazes upon his surroundings he is on the far side of the line that has kept him from his kin for all these years.

Corunir’s smile is broad when you find the pass into the dwarves’ outpost and becomes wider still when he catches sight of another man in a ranger’s greens and greys. His reunion with Braigiar is joyful, even with the lingering shadow of the Iron Crown that looms over all of Angmar and the tale of the loss of Golodir before Carn Dûm. It takes time to convince them, but you bring both Corunir and Braigiar with you on the journey north to Gath Forthnír and you are glad indeed for their company along the road through Imlad Balchorth.

The Valley of the Cruel Dead is aptly named and you are eager not to linger. You circle the lake near a dozen times before Bragiar finds the hidden trail up to Gath Forthnír, marked with a ranger’s pathfinder rune so faint it is hardly there at all. Braigiar and Corunir are welcomed with laughter and warm embraces by their kin in the hidden cave, more secret even than Esteldín, and by their word you are made welcome, too.

Lorniel is every inch a daughter of the Dúnedain and a leader as her father before her. She insists that Golodir still lives and the others, despite their doubts and better judgements, believe her. She leads the Free Peoples here and they love her.

You have not been in Gath Forthnír a week before you are staging a rescue mission. The force of Lorniel’s conviction pulls you in its wake like a whirlwind and you follow her into Carn Dûm with Corunir and two other rangers. Thoriel and Lunathron are deadly fighters; Lorniel chose her companions well.

You wait with Lorniel outside a jammed gate while Corunir and the others circle around. You turn your chisel in your hand as Lorniel searches the bodies in the streets, each time pleading desperately that this one is not her father. This hope is all that has sustained her. She cannot stand to lose it. 

There is one runestone in your bag that you use but rarely, a powerful ward to protect against the worst. It is difficult to invoke and draining for you, but it has saved lives before. You offer its protection to Lorniel but she shakes her head.

“Save it for my father.”

You do as she says. You regret it, terribly.

Lorniel is every inch a daughter of the Dúnedain, and her loss breaks them. Golodir was broken already at Mordirith’s hands and yet he manages to break further still. 

Lorniel’s death breaks something in you, too.

It’s then that you realize how deeply you have been drawn into this tale. You have lived for centuries and you have seen the deaths of many before, many even who you called friend. Something is different this time. Perhaps it is the shroud that settles over the people of Gath Forthnír, elves and dwarves and Men. Beneath the grief there is anger, and determination as iron as the land itself. You have been here only a short time but still they look at you as one of their own. None of them say a word against you, but you cannot help but wonder if they blame you for Lorniel's death. You blame yourself, some days. In all your years of study of the deep mysteries of rune-craft, you have learned much of healing, even if these days you make far more use of the power of the storm at your fingertips. Either one should have been enough to save her. On lighter days, you know that Lorniel was dead when she hit the ground at your side, and no amount of healing would bring her back. You know, too, that Mordirith is beyond your power as you are now, and yet, and yet…

Laerdan’s errands might be as much for your sake as for Golodir’s. They certainly help you nearly as much as they help him. You share a smile when he raises Dúnachar, marvelling at the beauty of the blade. You take no others when the two of you steal into Carn Dûm. You stop Golodir before you enter the city and invoke the ward you had nearly placed on Lorniel. There is recognition in his eyes when you hold out the runestone and you wonder with a chill what exactly Mordirith showed him in the palantír.

Corunir is furious with both of you when you return. He is probably right, you think, as he berates both you and Golodir for sneaking off alone. After Lorniel, losing Golodir may very well have shattered what resistance against the Iron Crown remains.

“I mean this for you as well,” Corunir says, stabbing a finger at you. You blink. Corunir throws his hands up in frustration.

Mordirith is driven away, but new mysteries arise.

Sara Oakheart. You have seen her before, but where? Always in the strangest of places and seemingly always in need of rescue. Why? You think on the question as you return to Imladris where you marvel that so little time has passed. Aragorn is still here, though not for much longer if the whispers you hear within Elrond’s halls are any indication. There are none in Imladris who know Sara Oakheart and you return to Golodir with little news.

Some questions find answers at Barad Gúlaran. Many more are raised.

You do not remember how you left Barad Gúlaran. You come to yourself standing over a lightning-charred spider corpse above Nan Gurth. You are unsteady on your feet as you dodge Angmarim patrols all the way back to Gath Forthnír and the others note your paleness on your return. Laerdan, too, pales when he listens to your account of Amarthiel’s ascent. There is some painful history between him and the Champion of Angmar returned but you lack the wherewithal to consider it too deeply. You sleep heavily that night and wake late. Whatever passed within Barad Gúlaran took a greater toll on you than you thought but you have not the time to recover yourself. You leave for Tinnudir with the promise that Laerdan will be close behind. Braigiar and Corunir ride with you for a time but they have their own tasks- Gath Forthnír still wars with the Iron Crown and its allies from the shadows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you think about corunir for awhile you Will be sad. that's true of far too many rangers tho


	3. champions

The rangers of Tinnudir smile at your return and you regret that you have only ill news for them. Still, they know this land well and you strike into the heart of Annúminas with confidence. You do not account for the strength of Amarthiel’s new allies, Black Númenóreans out of the south. Morguldur alone nearly overwhelms you and the Dúnedain who accompany you into the city. The battle for the heart of old Arnor intensifies.

You are still not sure how you became a warrior, much less a champion of the Free Peoples, but you cannot deny your place in this however much you downplay it to others or in your own mind. You are grateful now for all you have learned from the Dúnedain and for their steadfast alliance. You admit to yourself that you have come to love the lake and the Wardens. The affection is returned, and the Dúnedain of Tinnudir worry for your well-being- mortal Men! fretting over the health of an elf!- and you laugh at their fears as Mordrambor slowly poisons your mind until the keep is in flames and Mordrambor is free and Laerdan is gone. You wonder if anything was ever gained here.

There is nothing you can do for Carchammedel or Colhamnir, but Tadan still has life in him. You raise your runestones with shaking hands and pour as much of your strength as you can into your friend. His eyes fall shut and for a moment you panic, thinking him gone. But his chest rises faintly and you know he is still here.

Calenglad asks you to join them as they lay Carchammedel and Colhamnir to rest, and you feel unworthy to place the final stones upon their cairns. You know you would lay beside them, and likely Tadan too, had you gone to see Tadan just a few minutes earlier, to stand with him as he had stood guard over you every time you went to speak with the prisoner. There is a part of you that wonders if you _should_ lay beside them, and you do not know if this thought is encouraged by the corruption that you have been fighting for what feels like years now, or if it is instead a product of your own heart. Tadan lacks the strength yet to stand on his own and Cuguminuial lends him her arm. He never meets your eyes and you cannot tell why. 

Later, Calenglad urges you not to blame Tadan for succumbing to Mordrambor’s power. He perhaps misunderstands your feelings- Tadan is not the one you blame. Nor, despite any logic, does Mordrambor receive the brunt of your anger. It is reserved for yourself, though you know that were it any other in your place you would beg them not to do just this. You wonder again what happened within Barad Gúlaran. You do not remember much of it. Much could have been done to or by you that you are unaware of.

You do not look any better for several weeks afterwards. You do not laugh off their concerns this time. Neither do you linger by the lake. 

Laerdan is taken, though you know not where. Without him, you unearth Amarthiel’s story piece by crumbled piece. You cannot help but pity Narmeleth when you know what Laerdan did to protect her. How long did she spend imprisoned in Delossad, at war with herself and the power of a corrupted ring, with only what news of the world she could beg from her caretakers until agents of Angmar at last reclaimed their Champion. Amarthiel has far less of your pity and less still when you learn what has become of Laerdan.

Sammath Baul reeks of blood and death and other less pleasant things and the overwhelming presence of it claws at your throat and you gag more than once, but at long last you find him. You thank the Valar that this time, at least, you were not too late. Wounded terribly in both mind and body but breathing still you bring Laerdan to Elrond only to return again to Tármunn Súrsa. However short a time you have been absent, Gwathryn looks thinner than he did before, and in ways that are not purely physical. This must end, and soon, you think. You are all too exhausted to continue much longer.

Later, it is exhaustion which you blame for your behavior at the Council of Narchuil. Laerdan laments the loss of half the ring for Narmeleth’s sake and Lord Glorfindel tells him he will never see his daughter free. Your face changes before you can stop it. Even if you had, you stand before the Wise who see much that others do not. They bid you speak and so you do.

If you have learned anything from these past months it is how to hope. The Shadow creeps close on all sides but if you but look there will be those who defy it. Elves and dwarves and hobbits and Men, in any and all combination, light fires in the darkness and trust in each other and that is how they survive. If Lorniel had given up on her father her people would have had little but grim desperation and a losing battle that slowly crushed them from without and within. If you had given up on Laerdan he would still be at the mercy of Angmar’s tortures or else dead of his wounds. Why now should he give up what hope he has retained for his daughter? Very little in this life is certain, for good or for ill. Laerdan knows Narmeleth best- if he hopes still then so will you.

The Council watches you in silence and you begin to wish you had thought better of speaking. You are hardly one to be counted among the Wise and you are centuries younger than even the youngest of them. Laerdan swears to see Narmeleth returned and the Council is concluded, your own outburst nearly forgotten in the wake of Laerdan’s. Elrond speaks to you alone afterwards.

“I do not wish to abandon hope nor would I have you do so, but be wary: false hope has been the downfall of many even among the greatest.”

You turn your feet north in search of the other half of Narchuil. You know not if it truly has any power to heal or to save yet bound within it- nor are you so certain now that Narmeleth can be saved, though you believe still in the heart of your words to the Council. 

Forochel is as harsh as Angmar, in its way. You are almost surprised to find yet another of the Dúnedain hidden among the snows, but you meet them often like this, alone in the wilderness or among another people. Even if, like Lothrandir, they are in time accepted as one of those among whom they live, they are still always just a touch apart. They still wear their ranger greens and they remember always the oaths they have sworn to their lord and to each other. You wonder, sometimes, how many of them are lonely. They speak often of each other, when you join them by their fires, but you so rarely see more than a handful together. Halros loves the Shire more than any discomfort caused by the hobbits’ chilly distrust of the Big Folk. Candaith watches the Weather Hills alone, despite the relative closeness of the Forsaken Inn. Mincham keeps watch over Fornost, Torogethir over the Evendim Gate to the west. In Esteldín, at least, they are not alone, nor on the isle of Tinnudir or in the ruins of Annúminas. Esteldín is a secret known to few, however, and Annúminas is become a battleground. You think of Corunir, separated from his band for years. He must have been lonely indeed. 

The shade of the Last-King is a meeting you will long remember. You do not wish for the short life of Man, but you wonder how different it is for them, to watch generations pass and hold all their sins and all their glory in history and stories preserved. The gift of the Eldar has condemned Laerdan to hold his for centuries inside himself. It is not that elves discount their bloodlines- far from it- but so much of their past is still in living memories. You wonder how long your regrets will stay with you, long after the Men who have shared these things with you have gone. Even the dwarves, long-lived though they are, will fade before you.

Then again, the time of the elves is ending, as your people are all too aware. Of course, if your path continues as it has, you may very well fall in battle before you need ever worry about such things.

Laerdan sends you on meaningless errands and makes for the ancient forges of Mirobel alone. You are angry and hurt and scared because your friend has left and you cannot predict what will happen next. You have lost every step of the race to prevent the rekindling of the forges and now Laerdan journeys there with both halves of Narchuil. You chase after him and find him injured but alive. You offer him what healing you can in so short a time before forcing your way into the heart of Mirobel.

Beside the power of Narchuil reforged your runestones seem little more than dwarf-candles. Laerdan was wrong. Amarthiel stands before you, not Narmeleth.

Out of you all, Laerdan is the only one who does not leave Mirobel. Narmeleth is freed and with her you hunt Mordirith and Mordrambor. You alone accompany her into Gador Gúlaran to face them. None in Gath Forthnír trust her, and perhaps they are right to do so. You no longer know. Few would have dared to follow her into the heart of the Iron Crown’s power even if you had begged it of them.

All the satisfaction that Skorgrím’s death lacked you find in Mordrambor’s. For all Mordirith and Narmeleth-as-Amarthiel have done, it is Mordrambor who most holds your enmity. It was neither the False King nor the Champion of Angmar that twisted your mind and Tadan’s while you sat mere feet away and bickered over carrot cake. 

The fight is not over.

Mordirith spins illusions around you both. Illusions or visions or shades of those you have lost, their touch burns. You shroud yourself and Narmeleth in lightning but it is not enough. A vision of Lorniel, twisted and horrid, beats you to the ground and vanishes. Mordirith does the same to Narmeleth, but this closeness is what she has been waiting for. Dúnachar pierces his breast again and this time his fall is more permanent. Narmeleth pays the price. You crawl to her side, aching and weak, but you are too slow. She is gone already. You pull yourself with terrible slowness to the edge of the high platform on which you fought. It is done.

You return to Gath Forthnír with three corpses. You find an empty bedroll and sleep for more than a day. You wish you could sleep longer still but there are many who must be told of the fall of Angmar. Lakewind is near as tired as you but he bears you faithfully until you return to Imladris at last. Angmar is a threat no longer, but you think the cost is too high, too high. The Wise agree among themselves, Glorfindel and Elrond Peredhel and all the small council: Narmeleth’s death was a good one, as such things are counted. Tragic, of course, but noble. She redeemed herself, the lord of Imladris says. For all the pain she caused as Amarthiel, you wish that this had ended differently. Did she need to be redeemed? Was it not enough that she be _saved_? Was not enough lost as it is? The thought is bitter, surprisingly so, but this time you hold your tongue.

You are not a warrior. You are a scholar, sometimes an adventurer, but you have never been a soldier. In the days following the fall of Angmar you watch a strange fellowship heavy with purpose depart from Imladris, Aragorn and Legolas among them. For some time after you roam, aimless, suddenly. You explore the corners of Eriador you were forced to pass by before, and slowly you begin to heal.

You return to the frozen reaches of the Lossoth and pass much time in obscure conversation with Lothrandir. When you tire of the cold you bid Lothrandir and the people of Sûri-kylä farewell and turn south, bearing now a single bracer shaped from a massive drake scale. You cross paths with Halros by chance in the Shire, and you spend weeks patrolling together and debating the merits of the various hobbits’ ales. 

You spend much of those weeks in the company of the scattered Dúnedain, passing from one to another but this time by your own decision. You come to know them better as people, now, without the press of desperation and duty and time. You prefer the relative anonymity that the rangers cultivate nearly to an art form- the alternative is endless questions or something far too like reverence. You don’t belong on a pedestal.

You visit Tinnudir and Esteldín, more out of curiosity than concern. Tadan is not there. You return to Gath Forthnír as well, but it feels cavernous and empty and cold now. You stay only long enough to rest and resupply. You are sure to speak with Golodir before you go, because the one thing you are certainly not doing is _fleeing_ , but he looks at you as if he can see your heart and for a moment you wonder if he can- the Dúnedain are of the blood of Westernesse. It is not impossible. But perhaps you have simply seen enough together that you can read each other with ease. Before you walk out his door he folds you into an embrace you might call fatherly and wishes you safe travels. You go with Corunir back to Rammas Deluon and you gather fire-pots from the goblin-huts of Malenhad. You set them alight from a distance and watch the watch-stones explode in a hail of sharp stone. They will trouble travelers no more.

You spend two weeks with Saeradan in Bree, tending to small troubles and enjoying his company and that of several other rangers that stay for at least a night before moving on. This is, apparently, a common occurrence, and you laugh at Saeradan’s fond exasperation when yet another of his kinsmen appears on his doorstep. You have grown used to travel- much like the rangers, in fact- and are beginning to itch to take to the road again when word arrives of a party of dwarves that have gone to attempt once more to retake Moria.

You turn your feet south once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> love the internal panic when you realize you kinda just yelled at fuckin glorfindel, who fought a balrog, won, and then got sent back bc the valar thought he was cool or smth (it's been a bit since i read the silm but i remember That part at least)
> 
> also blowing shit up for therapy
> 
> also also: if you would like lorniel to not be dead, consider 'just past the edge of our fears' ch4


End file.
